


Tears of Your Priority

by anonniemouse



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Sex, Insomnia, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Phase One (Gorillaz), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 16:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16726962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonniemouse/pseuds/anonniemouse
Summary: 2D is often kept awake by troubling thoughts. He decides to take his mind off of things by having a talk with Murdoc. But he eventually realizes that this one night makes his thoughts even more troubled than before.





	Tears of Your Priority

**Author's Note:**

  * For [interstellaroverdrive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellaroverdrive/gifts).



You are tired. So motherfucking tired.

 

The bathroom mirror is fogged over from your recent shower, and you wipe away some of the steam to stare at your sorry self. Even though it’s been over a year since you woke up from the accident, you still are unsettled by your appearance. Blue hair, dripping wet from the shower and plastered against the sides of your face. Dark eyes, made even darker by the smudgy circles beneath them indicating your lack of sleep.

 

And bruises, littering your skin like a morbid constellation of black and blue.

 

Your fingers rub against a bruise ringing around your left eye, and you wince, remembering Murdoc’s fist colliding with your face a few days ago after an unfortunate drunken encounter. You had chosen the wrong time to confront Murdoc about his habit of stealing your girlfriends, and he had said something rather rude and beaten you bloody.

 

 _Murdoc_. You were never one to love quickly and the speed at which you became infatuated with him after you woke from your coma was surprising. And the steady strength of your feelings also surprised you, especially after he began hitting you and insulting you multiple times a day. Something’s got to be fucked up with your mind if you can forgive him every time. Something’s got to be fucked up in there if he’s the one your mind drifts to when you’re alone in your bed at night.

 

You blink and snap yourself out of your thoughts. Taking one last glance at your pathetic reflection, you shuffle out of the bathroom and into your room, flopping back onto your bed and chugging the rest of the half-empty bottle of vodka from your nightstand. You grimace at the bitter taste and slip on your pajamas, hoping to obtain a decent night’s sleep for once.

 

But of course, fate hates you, and you find yourself lying awake as the hours tick by. You can’t tell whether it’s the alcohol or whether it’s an oncoming migraine, but the room seems to spin and your skin feels sticky. You curl up and clutch your head in your hands, screwing your eyes tightly shut and trying futilely to sleep.

 

Though you know that even in sleep, you still can’t run away from your problems. Because in your dreams lurk the same twisted grins and dirty calloused fingers that you already witness when you’re awake. And in your dreams those grins mock you ( _and kiss you oh-so-tenderly_ ) and those fingers strangle you ( _and caress your body lovingly_ ) and you can’t escape ( _because you want it so goddamn badly_ ).

 

You find yourself shaking and there’s tears on your cheeks that you don’t remember shedding. Wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, you decide to do something instead of just lying in bed drowning in your bleak thoughts. You glance at your clock, which reads 12:47. It’s far too late for Noodle and Russel to be awake, so the option of sitting and talking to them is ruled out. Which means the only person left is...Murdoc. You’d really rather not go out all the way to the Winnebago just to be probably beaten up, but anything’s better than being left alone to your own devices.

 

Despite the chilly nighttime winds, you don’t bother to throw on a jacket. You just briskly walk out to the Winnebago, and rap on the door sharply. The door creaks open, and Murdoc stands there, glaring at you.

 

“Faceache,” he greets you stiffly. He’s not wearing a shirt and he looks as if he hasn’t showered in weeks. A smoldering cigarette rests between his lips, and he chews on the end of it slowly.

 

“Hi Murdoc.” Your voice squeaks a bit and you internally cringe at how pitiful you sound.

 

“What the hell do y’want? Ain’t it a bit late?” asks Murdoc.

 

You anxiously play with your fingertips. “I know you’re always awake, and so I thought I’d come out here for a bit because I c-couldn’t sleep cos I was thinkin’ about-”

 

Murdoc interrupts you with a rude cough. “Frankly, denthead, I don’t give a fuck about your insomnia. But I suppose there’s no use in makin’ you walk all the way back. Come on in.”

 

You shuffle inside and awkwardly stand there. The Winnebago reeks of weed and sex, and you wrinkle your nose at the strong odor. Murdoc closes the door behind you, and settles down onto his bed.

 

Nervously, you perch next to him at the foot of his bed. He offers you a blunt and you light up, relaxing a bit and leaning back across the bed so your head is looking at the world from an upside down angle and your hair is brushing against the floor.

 

“So,” Murdoc says gruffly, attempting to break the awkward silence. “Y’said you were thinkin’ about somethin’ that was keepin’ you awake. What were y’thinkin’ about?”

 

“Oh, nothin’,” you respond, closing your eyes. “Nothin’ of importance.”

 

“Are y’sure?” he presses.

 

You yawn. “M’sure.”

 

There’s a silence for a bit, but it’s a comforting silence. Even though neither of you are speaking, you can still feel his presence there and it’s soothing your troubled mind in spite of the fact that Murdoc was the one who was troubling your thoughts in the first place.

 

“Actually,” you murmur. “I was thinkin’ about somethin’.”

 

Murdoc exhales noisily. “Oh yeah? What was it?”

 

“I was thinkin’ about you,” you quietly say.

 

“What about me?” Murdoc grabs your hand and pulls you up into a sitting position.

 

A sudden pang of fear cuts through you, a fear that if you told him what your thoughts were then he’d hurt you. Because he’s _Murdoc_ and that’s all he does. Hurt you.

 

You shyly turn your head away, not answering him. You stub out your blunt and your gaze shifts downward and you begin fiddling worriedly with your fingertips.

 

“Y’can just tell me, y’know,” he frustratedly says. “I ain’t gonna bite.”

 

A stray tear courses down your cheek. You look back at Murdoc, who just quirks an eyebrow and says, “Why the hell are you cryin’?”

 

Defensively, you respond, “M’not cryin’.”

 

“There’s a tear on your face,” he states. “That means you’re cryin’.”

 

You quickly wipe it away. “Whatever,” you bitterly whisper. “I don’t fuckin’ care if I’m cryin’.”

 

“Can’t you just tell me, faceache?” He’s becoming rather pissed by your lack of cooperation.

 

“I can’t tell you,” you whisper. “But I can show you.” And you lean forward and kiss him, gently and tentatively.

 

You feel him go rigid against you and you immediately pull away. “Murdoc?” you inquire. He stays silent. “Are you alright?”

 

He turns to you, a peculiar look on his face. And he pulls you into a searing kiss, pressing your body possessively against his. His fingers knot in your hair and tug roughly, eliciting a pained whimper from you.

 

Soon his hands slip underneath your shirt and feel their way across your chest, tracing patterns against you. You let him pull your shirt over your head, and his eyes rake hungrily across your skinny frame. Heat rises to your face and you avert your eyes, suddenly very aware of how shadows are visible between your ribs and how your skin looks like it’s been stretched over nothing but bone.

 

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, luv,” he purrs, kissing and nipping across your collarbone. You arch your back and whine needily, craving every last inch of him with a yearning borderlining desperation.

 

His fingers find their way to the waistband of your pajama pants. Smirking, he pulls them down your legs, leaving you exposed and bare in front of him. He hovers above you, gazing at your body fervorously. “You’re mine, pet, do y’know that? All fuckin’ mine.”

 

 _I’m all fuckin’ yours._ A shadow of doubt clouds your mind as your thoughts drift back to twisted grins amused by your pain and dirty calloused fingers wrapped around your neck.

 

And it’s almost as if Murdoc can sense your doubt, because he glances at you, smirking, and drops down to lick his way across your angular hipbones. He then finds your most pressing need and, _oh god_ , he wraps his hand around it and pumps. Your hips twitch and you arch upwards into his touch.

 

You can feel him getting more aggressive with you. The gentle caresses turn to rough handling, and the tender kisses turn to harsh nips.

 

“Turn,” he hisses, guiding your body to lie on its stomach. You peek back around at Murdoc, and awestruck, you watch him undo his belt and shuck off his jeans and briefs.

 

He doesn’t prepare you whatsoever. And so when he roughly begins to press himself inside you, you bite down fiercely on your lower lip to keep from crying out. Because you know if you wailed in pain then Murdoc would throw you out and you’d be left alone to your thoughts again.

 

Even though you know that staying here would bring you much more agony.

 

“Dullard,” he growls.

 

You don’t reply, just moan euphorically as Murdoc thrusts deep into you and hits a spot that fortunately causes more pleasure than pain.

 

“If you tell anyone about this, you’re dead. Got it?” His voice is an aggressive snarl and you can’t help but feel both intimidated and aroused by it.

 

“‘Course I won’t tell,” you answer breathily.

 

The two of you don’t exchange another word, not when Murdoc’s nails scrape down your back hard enough to draw blood, not when you begin murmuring his name like a mantra. Just silence until you feel him spasm and release inside you. You swear you hear him whisper your name as he cums.

 

But you’re probably just imagining things.

 

Because when he pulls out of you, he doesn’t bother to let you release. He doesn’t care enough to let you stay. He just tosses your pajamas at you and gestures at the door.

 

You knew this would happen.

 

Shaky as a newborn fawn, you dress yourself clumsily and edge outside. Your feet drag against the muddy ground but you don’t care. All you can feel is the ghost of Murdoc against you, how he was in the beginning before his gentleness waned, touching you and embracing you and loving you.

 

You’ve never felt so hurt in your entire life. Not when you fell out of the tree when you were eleven, not when Murdoc ran your face over, not when you’ve been hit countless times.

 

All of those times, the bruises healed and the wounds closed up and the bones mended themselves. But there’s no remedy to your heart being shredded into tiny little pieces. You’re broken and nothing can ever put you back together.

 

Except for Murdoc.

 

You imagine his hands, those gentle hands, carefully picking up each piece of you and making you whole again. You imagine him holding you in his arms and stroking your hair softly while murmuring lovely words that would normally be left unsaid. You imagine him curling up next to you in bed and pressing you against him tenderly, gazing at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

 

Entering your room again, you clamber into bed and stare up at the ceiling. You’re still hard, fueled by your thoughts on the cold walk back to the sanctuary of your room. And so you slide off your pajama pants and let your hands wander off to places Murdoc touched.

 

And you visualize his lips on yours again. And you visualize him inside you again. And you visualize that twisted grin ( _the one that smiles at your pain_ ) and those dirty calloused fingers ( _the ones that strangle you and scratch you and hurt you and hurt you and hurtyouandhurtyouandhurtyou)_

 

You convulse and release with a choked whine. Apathetically, you sit there for a bit in your own mess, pretending you’re not in pain and ignoring the silent tears leaving silvery streaks across your bruised and numb face.

 

You turn back to look at the clock. It reads 6:34.

 

You are tired. So motherfucking tired.

**Author's Note:**

> have a little story to satisfy your cravings for “the emptiness we leave behind” (which i’ve got writer’s block with right now). 
> 
> this is a gift for the lovely interstellaroverdrive, who sent me a very wonderful complement about my writing. follow her on tumblr @sadistsatanist666


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